Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,       

  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

  And still more, later flowers for the bees,

  Until they think warm days will never cease,        

    For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells              John Keats

photo by Dollhouse

photo by Dollhouse